Bits from the Hard Drive
by Domina Temporis
Summary: Drabble series, all the little moments of Sherlock's (and everyone else's) lives we never get to see. Basically a place to put whatever short little Sherlock stories I may write, will update periodically as the mood strikes me.
1. The Egg

"Hey, freak!" The shout, rather annoyingly, brought Sherlock out of his contemplative reverie. Turning around, before he could even see who was taunting him, he was hit with something hard and gooey. An egg, that was the only thing that could be that particular combination. He winced and squeezed his eyes shut so that none of the yolk would drip into them. He felt his hair hanging gooey over his forehead, and dreaded the amount of time it would take to get the egg out of it. That was time he had planned to spend in experimenting on the effect of sodium nitrate on vellum (and, no, he did _not_ kill the sheep to get the vellum). The laughter of the boys followed Sherlock as he did his best to ignore them and get home as fast as possible, admittedly a difficult thing when one was trying to keep egg out of one's eyes.

He finally did make it home and slipped up the stairs, trying to avoid his parents. He knew his mother would only suffocate him with her concern, and his father would tell him he should try to be more like everyone else if he didn't want to be taunted. He had almost made it to the bathroom to try and wash the egg out of his hair when he ran straight into someone.

"Sherlock? What happened?" Mycroft, seventeen and almost ready to go to university, asked, eyeing his little brother carefully.

"You know what happened, Mycroft," Sherlock said defensively, shaking his dark, egg-filled locks out of his eyes.

"Yes, I do," Mycroft answered. His deductive abilities were already almost fully trained, while Sherlock's were coming along nicely, but were still childish. All the same, Mycroft knew instantly what had happened. "Who was it?"

"It doesn't matter, there are too many of them to be sure," Sherlock answered tiredly, wanting only to get the egg out of his hair before it hardened.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said warningly, knowing that his little brother was perfectly able to identify voices, and there was no excuse for hiding such intelligence.

"Oh, all right," Sherlock said with a petulant whine, "It was Jake Asper and Sean Richardson, and a bunch of their friends I didn't know." That was true; Jake and Sean were two years older than Sherlock, though only one school year above him, since Sherlock was accelerated. He was a favorite target of theirs and had been for years. Though normally they stuck to words and not physical abuse; Sherlock hoped this wasn't going to become a habit.

"Hmm," was Mycroft's only response, but he mercifully let Sherlock go, and he spent the next hour carefully washing the egg out of his hair, dreading the next day.

The next day, Sherlock rushed out of school, hoping he'd avoid any altercations with Jake and Sean. Nothing could equal his surprise when he saw Jake and Sean absolutely _cowering_ near the rubbish tips, and his own brother walking calmly away.

Sherlock never found out exactly what it was Mycroft had said to them (physical threats were too brutish for him) but Jake and Sean left him alone after that, and what was more, told all their friends to leave Sherlock alone as well. The word spread that while Sherlock Holmes might be a freak, his brother was s_cary_, and it didn't surprise Sherlock at all that Mycroft ended up basically running the country. He often got amusement out of imagining Mycroft intimidating the Prime Minister the way he'd intimidated Sherlock's tormentors all those years ago.

* * *

><p>AN I wrote this ages ago, but in addition to tearing my emotions to shreds, Series 3 has left me fascinated with Sherlock and Mycroft's childhoods, so I thought I'd start my drabble series off with this :)


	2. Take a Sad Song

"What are we doing here, John?" Sherlock looked around the electronics store with an expression of utmost boredom.

"We are here," John said absentmindedly, looking over the store's advertisements in the paper, "to buy a new TV. Ours is broken, remember?"

"I only missed by a little bit," Sherlock said irritably.

"A little bit is still enough to shoot a hole in the screen, Sherlock," John answered, his tone full of strained patience. "This isn't a conversation I should have to have with a grown man. Remind me to take you to the shooting range so you can learn to aim."

Sherlock tried and failed to come up with a retort, but the truth remained that John was a crack shot, and Sherlock could stand to learn a lot from him about firearms.

"How large a screen do you think we need?" John asked.

"I don't know," Sherlock answered. Then, just to annoy John, "A larger screen will give me a better target."

"Good point, smaller it is." At this point, they both noticed the sales assistant abruptly decide to leave them after hearing this. Catching each other's eye, Sherlock and John burst out laughing.

"He was going to overcharge us anyway. His flatmate doesn't pay his rent on time," Sherlock said.

"Right," John said, too used to Sherlock to be surprised anymore. "Well, I think this one should work." He pointed out a flatscreen that was the same size as their old TV and Sherlock just nodded, not really interested.

John loaded the box onto their handcart, and then, inexplicably started singing along to the song playing over the shop's speakers, "Na, na na nanana na, hey Jude."

"I've never heard you sing before," Sherlock said, putting all his attention on John. Singing wasn't usual. John didn't sing. That didn't make sense.

"Oh, I don't know. It's the Beatles. Hey Jude," John shrugged. "You kind of have to sing along to it."

"The who?" Sherlock asked.

"No, not them, the Beatles," John corrected absently, then looked back at Sherlock in disbelief. "Don't tell me you've never heard of the Beatles."

Sherlock hated admitting he didn't know something and had to remind himself there was no _need _for him to know who this band was. "We listened to classical music in my house, John."

John shook his head, "You and I are going home right now and listening to the Beatles. No buts. You're musical, you should appreciate them."

"Fine," Sherlock said reluctantly. Except, when they got home, he was surprised to find that he actually liked the band. He found them interesting, both musically and lyrically. Not that he'd ever tell John that.

Not until John entered the sitting room one day to find Sherlock figuring out how to play "Let It Be" on the violin. The smug smile didn't leave his face all day.

* * *

><p>AN No explanation, just that I'm a shameless Beatles fan so here you go.


	3. Anderson's Explanation

Spoilers for the first episode of S3

Characters: Anderson

* * *

><p>"Why'd you start up this group anyway?" One of the young women who came to Anderson's first meeting of what he had decided to call The Empty Hearse asked. "I read it in the papers, you were one of the police officers who said he was a fake."<p>

Everyone in the room turned to stare at Anderson, who swallowed nervously. "Why are you listening to the papers? They're the ones that gave out that whole fake life story."

"Yeah, but Sherlock was arrested on police evidence. They must have believed; there are pictures of him and John escaping in handcuffs. And you were a police officer," Laura said, as if it was obvious.

"So was it you?" One of the other members asked.

"All right, yes, it was me," Anderson said, getting fed up. Instantly, ten pairs of eyes were looking daggers at him. "Well, it wasn't just me. You have to understand, he was a pain to work with. None of us could stand him. And the feeling was mutual." Sherlock's well-placed barbs were still ringing in his ears all these months later. Only now they came with a wistfulness that had certainly never been present while the detective was alive.

"So, if you hated him so much, and he hated you, why'd you start this group?" The original questioner asked. Anderson noticed she was wearing a black armband on her sleeve, in mourning.

"I bet it's guilt," Laura said. "Can't live with yourself now that you made him jump off of St. Bart's."

"I didn't make him do that, because he _didn't do it,"_ Anderson said. "The whole point of this group is that he's still alive!" The silence that greeted this proclamation might as well have been full of chirping crickets. Anderson sighed and went on, "Fine. All right. I didn't want…what happened to happen. And I do think he's alive. He would have seen it coming and prepared." It had given him such a shiver when he realized Sherlock had actually done it. It was an incredible feeling of power that terrified him slightly. "But I am guilty, and not because of Sherlock."

"Who, then?"

"He means John, you idiot," Laura answered impatiently.

Anderson nodded. "The day of the funeral. I don't know why I decided to go; he wouldn't have wanted me there. Neither of them would have, knowing what I'd done. But I never saw anyone as lost as John Watson was that day." He let his mind drift back into the memories of that day, only a few months ago. The church had been almost empty. None of Sherlock's family were there, only those few who considered him a friend. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, a few restaurant owners. All looking appropriately sad, or simply shocked by the loss. And John.

"He didn't move. Didn't blink. His expression didn't change once. He just stared at the coffin with this deadened look, like if he stared at it hard enough it would change what had happened. No one could get through to him, it was like there was this fog between him and everyone else." He'd never seen anyone look so _lonely_, made worse since no one had ever really seen John outside of Sherlock's company.

Anderson brought himself back to the present, "That's when I realized what we'd done. And I'm going to make up for it by making sure everyone knows what really happened."

Everyone was silent before Laura ventured to ask, "How is John now?"

Anderson shrugged. "No one sees him. He moved out of 221b right away. He doesn't see any of us anymore." He'd never really given John much consideration before; aside from wondering how Sherlock had managed to get him to stick around. After, when it was too late, he saw the truth. Sherlock hadn't done anything aside from being himself. John was the one who had done the sticking around. And without anyone to stick around for, he was a broken man.

Nobody had taken John into account before St. Bart's. Not until he was the only one left and it was too late.


	4. New Beginnings

The first time she saw him, Mary Morstan thought that John Watson was too nice, too attractive to be ignoring all the life around him. He couldn't have been more than 35. It seemed a shame.

The second time she saw him, Mary tried to talk to him, and even though he was perfectly friendly, she noticed he made no attempt to prolong the conversation. Instead of being affronted, she found herself wondering why. She thought he looked sad.

The third time Mary saw John, she decided she wasn't going to take no for an answer. Well, that wasn't strictly true. John bumped into her and spilled his lunch all over her.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Here, let me make it up to you."

"Do you like tea? Everyone likes tea, don't they?" Mary asked brightly, not letting the opportunity pass.

John paused, looking somewhat hesitant before smiling civilly and agreeing to a quick cup of tea in a nearby cafe.

It was a good thing Mary wasn't fazed by awkward conversations, because it was the most awkward one she'd had for a while.

"Are you from London?"

"Not originally, no." Flat tone, no invitation to ask further.

Mary pressed on. "I've seen you come in here a few times, do you work nearby?"

John smiled patiently, "At a hospital."

"Oh, the one two blocks over?"

"That's the one," John answered before going back to his tea. "You?"

"Oh, I'm a teacher," Mary said. "At the grammar school on Barron's Street."

"Hmm," John said, and Mary realized he was only trying to keep up the minimum level of politeness required. It only made her more interested. There had to be something underneath that polite exterior.

The next few times they ran into each other they said hi, followed by a few hurried conversations in the doorway until Mary decided to try again.

"I was just heading out to lunch. Care to join me?"

"Um...sure," John said uncertainly.

The conversation over their paninis was as stilted and awkward as it had been the first time, until Mary sat back and said, "So what's your story, anyway?"

John half-chuckled, "What do you mean, what's my story?"

"I mean, you're always alone and you never want to talk to anyone. I had to pry conversation out of you last time. So what is it?"

"Maybe I'm just not friendly?" John suggested.

"No, that's not it," Mary said. "Unfriendly people don't make a point of accepting lunch invitations from people they barely know."

John started to laugh quietly, followed by what she could have sworn was a flinch.

"What's the matter? I'm not that painful to be with, am I?"

John shook his head, "Oh, no, it's not you. Not at all." She waited for him to go on. "It's just, what you said, it reminded me of someone." The look that crossed his face then wasn't just a flinch; it was as if windows had opened onto a freezing January day, with no hope of anything other than emptiness and cold.

Realizing he'd let on more than he intended, John looked away. "Look, it's a long story, and you probably won't believe me anyway."

Mary shrugged, "I've got time. Besides, you look like you could do with telling someone, and you don't know how I'll react."

John paused, and Mary gave his foot a gentle prod under the table, "I'm listening."

Seeming to reach a decision, John took a breath and started. "To answer your earlier question, I've been in London for a little over two years. I was an Army doctor and was invalided out of Afghanistan. And…I was lost. I couldn't afford London, I didn't have any family I wanted to see. I came back with a limp and no prospects."

Mary nodded sympathetically. She'd seen London chew up and spit out more than one person who'd come there in hopes of something better. It wasn't a matter of strength, but of circumstances.

"Anyway," John went on, "one day, I ran into an old friend from med school, and he introduced me to someone who needed a flatmate." He took a minute as the memories came back and almost laughed. "He introduced me to someone who told me my life story just by looking at me, and the next day we were looking at a flat together."

"His name was Sherlock Holmes." It was obvious even saying the name was painful, because he winced visibly before going on.

"He told me he was a consulting detective, he solved crimes the police couldn't figure out, and took cases from the public. Only the interesting ones, not the ones that could be figured out with a little simple forensics. And for some reason, he took me on the case he was working on that day."

"Hang on," Mary said. "Sherlock Holmes…was he…?"

"The Hero of Reichenbach? St. Bart's?" John asked. "Yes, that was him."

"Oh, God," Mary said. "I never followed his career but I read the story in the papers."

Almost as if he hadn't heard her, John went on. "Sherlock nearly died on that first case, but he caught the serial killer we were chasing. Well, I say it was the first case, it wasn't. Not for him. But it was our first case."

"After that, I moved in, and soon we were a unit. Sherlock and John, solving crimes, catching the criminals. We were a good team. Hardly any of them got away." John held no pride in his voice saying this, but he didn't try to hide it either.

"Sorry," he added, "He hated false modesty, Sherlock. He'd be livid if I downplayed his reputation. Over the next year, the crimes got bigger, and so did we. I started keeping a blog of our cases and it had a pretty big following. But then, there was Moriarty."

"The jewel thief?" Mary asked.

"That's the one," John said. "He was _obsessed_ with Sherlock. He went after us just to play games with him, just to pitch their brainpower against each other. And finally, it worked."

"What happened?" Mary asked, who hadn't followed the case that closely.

"He somehow got everyone believing that Sherlock was a fake; that he couldn't know the things he did and that he'd set up all the cases he'd solved. And Sherlock…" John stopped, then continued, his voice breaking. "The thing is, I still can't get why he did it. He didn't care what anyone thought of him. He was angry with me for caring about them. But whatever the reason, he jumped off the roof of St. Bart's. And I was there."

John said the last part very quickly; clearly he didn't want to dwell on it. "And that was it. He was gone. Nothing's been the same since then."

"Of course not," Mary said.

Having a sympathetic ear was making John more talkative, "Doing the cases with Sherlock, they gave me a purpose after I got back from Afghanistan. Once that was gone, I had nothing again. And that's it. My story."

Mary watched him for a few seconds before saying, "Well, you've taken me through the events. Now, what was he like? Sherlock?"

"What was Sherlock like?" John asked, before letting out a brief laugh. "Well, he was annoying as hell most of the time. He thought he knew better than everyone else, and he let you know it. Thing is, he was usually right. He was a real-life genius. But he was on a completely different wavelength from everyone else. He didn't get things that were so obvious to the rest of the world. Like why you should care what people think of you. That you don't get the best results if you insult your colleagues' intelligence constantly. That the Earth went around the Sun."

Mary was staring at him in disbelief when John shook his head, "Oh, no that one's true. We once had a whole argument about it. Anyway, what else was he like? Oh, he liked to do experiments. On body parts. And leave them all over the flat. He'd play the violin at 3 AM, he wouldn't talk for days if he was in the wrong mood, which was whenever he didn't have a case. Once he got so bored he shot a happy face into our sitting room wall. He really didn't care about anyone. Except me."

"Why you?" Mary asked.

"I don't know," John said. "I've never been able to figure it out. I'm nothing special. But I was to him. The first time we met Moriarty, he'd kidnapped me. Strapped a bomb to my chest and made me confront Sherlock in his place. He told me what to say over a wire and when I did, the look on Sherlock's face. He thought I was Moriarty for a brief second and it was like…the only person he'd ever trusted had betrayed him. It was the worst moment of my life. Up until the day at St. Bart's."

For a second, he looked as if he was going to go one before he held himself back and said simply, "He was the best friend I've ever had, weird as that sounds. And I miss him, every day."

Mary sat forward and placed her hand over John's. He looked at her a little oddly but it felt natural to her. "I'm sorry, John. Really, I am. He obviously meant a lot to you."

"Yes, well, now you know. Why I'm always alone."

Mary wrote her number on a little slip of paper and slid it across the table. "You don't have to be. If you ever want to talk, or just to see another person, someone who won't remind you of everything, call me."

"Why? Why me?" John asked.

"He obviously thought you were worth it," Mary said. "If he was the genius you say he was, don't you think he could be right?"

The first signs of a true smile, not one based in sarcasm or a fake one trying to hide the pain, crossed John's face, and he pulled out his wallet, prepared to pay.

"No charge for you," the owner said, swooping in to intercept them, "You're Sherlock's friend, right? He got me out of a very tight spot once. I owe him. So you don't pay here, OK?"

"Oh, well, thank you, thank you very much," John said.

"It's no problem, Dr. Watson. We read the blog. We still believe." John nodded and left, Mary behind him, wondering about the eccentric, arrogant genius who'd inspired such loyalty in so many people. She didn't have to wonder about John Watson. She already knew he was worth it.

* * *

><p>AN So this wasn't actually the chapter I meant to post, I got mixed up between this and one of my others. That's what you get for posting too quickly -_-

It's probably pretty obvious this isn't canon, I wrote this long before S3 aired just as an exercise. I'll leave it up since it's been up there now. Sorry everyone!


	5. Don't Touch That Dial!

A/N So this is the chapter I meant to post last night. No series 3 spoilers aside from Mary's presence

* * *

><p>One of the things John immediately liked about Mary was that she didn't tell him to move on.<p>

Not like everyone else.

"Oh, John, you should try and live your life. He wouldn't want you to sit around doing nothing." Well, yes, he probably _would_ have wanted that, since in life Sherlock always assumed John was just around whenever the detective needed him to be.

"You've got to move on, you're young. You've got your whole life ahead of you." He wouldn't have had a life without meeting Sherlock in the first place.

"John, really, I know he was your friend, but it's been months now." Was acceptable mourning time for a friend only supposed to last a few weeks? Was he supposed to quantify grief by the level of affection society pre-approved for friendship?

But Mary was different. She listened. She asked questions, on those few occasions he wanted to talk about it.

Most of the time they just did other things. Normal things. Nothing that had anything to do with crime, or police work. Much sooner than he'd expected, they were serious. Not yet move-in serious, but close.

"Hi," Mary said. "Sorry I'm late. I got held up with my new phone. They had to give me a new number for some reason."

"I thought you said they wouldn't," John said as Mary sat down at the table in the nicer-than-usual restaurant. It was their six-month anniversary, after all.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Mary said with a shrug. "Anyway, here's my new number." She slid the receipt with the number on it across the table. "And you had better put me in your speed dial this time."

"Don't worry, you'll be number one in my contacts," John said as he went to add her to his speed dial. Then he sighed heavily as he read the first name.

"What's the matter?" Mary asked.

"Sherlock's still my number one contact," John said. Press "1" and Sherlock's now-defunct phone would ring. After the first few weeks, when the temptation to call or text it was almost overwhelming, John mostly just ignored it. Mary's expression grew sympathetic and John shook his head. "It's fine. I can delete hi- it. I should have done it ages ago." He was about to do it when Mary took his hand.

"John, it's fine. You don't have to. I can be your number 2."

"Mary, that's ridiculous. You're the most important person in my life and it's not fair to place you after a dead man." All the same, his finger hovered over "Delete contact." Deleting Sherlock would feel so…final. No more texts, no more rambling voicemails detailing the solution to some crime or another. The grief hit him hard right then, harder than it had in months, until he was aware of Mary saying his name.

"John, when you're ready, you'll move on," Mary said sincerely. "If you're not ready, you shouldn't and I don't want to be the reason for that."

"Hang on, there has to be a way to change the contact order without deleting the contact," John said, fiddling with the phone. "Here we go. Mary Morstan, number 1."

"And Sherlock?"

"Still in here. Just not the speed dial," John said. "I just didn't want to lose these." He passed the phone over, all of Sherlock's text messages open. Some of them were instructions to buy milk or shampoo. Others were instructions about what to do on one case or another. Still others were instructions on what information to get from Scotland Yard, complete with rants about their stupidity.

"There are a lot of instructions here," Mary said mildly, reading through them.

"Yeah, that was Sherlock. Never ask when you can order."

Mary's eyes widened and she read aloud, "'Don't come home. The mold has escaped.' Then, 'Not escaped as much as grown.'"

John laughed, "_That_ was an interesting day. Last time I ever allowed him to store experiments in my bedroom."

Mary laughed too, "I wish I'd known him."

John shook his head, "You wouldn't have liked him."

"Why not?"

"No one did."

Mary scoffed at this, "You did."

John stopped, "Have I ever told you that you're the best thing that ever could have happened to me?"

"I don't know…I can't remember," Mary said with a mischievous smile.

"Well, then, I'll have to make sure you remember." John smiled back and they moved on to other things. It wasn't until much later that night that John realized that the only way the two people who mattered most to him; that he cared about the most, could ever both be with him was as numbers on his phone.


	6. A Little Domestic

Detective Inspector Lestrade was getting very tired of making the long trek over to Baker Street every time there was a crime that strayed beyond the too familiar. The fact that Baker Street's resident genius knew he was irreplaceable enough to insist that Scotland Yard come to get him on each and every occasion made it worse. Lestrade sighed, not quite able to wish he'd never met Sherlock Holmes, but getting closer every minute.

Today, he heard shouting before he even entered the door. More alarmed than he wanted to let on, Lestrade almost kicked the door down to get inside; what if some criminal with a grudge against Sherlock had found their way here? Before he could, however, Mrs. Hudson emerged from the front door, looking worried.

"Oh, Detective, I'm sorry!" she said as she almost walked into him. "I was just going out to do a bit of shopping, get some milk, everyday things, you know."

"Uh, yes," Lestrade said uncertainly. "Listen, is everything all right in there? It's a bit loud."

"Oh, that," Mrs. Hudson said, looking up at the first floor window anxiously. "They're having a bit of a domestic. I don't really know why, but they do sound angry don't they? I hope they don't ruin one of my walls again." She waved goodbye, leaving Lestrade standing outside, looking up at the window himself. The shouts were growing louder now; people passing by on the street were starting to look up. He sighed and resigned himself to heading up the seventeen steps.

Neither Sherlock or John seemed to realize he was even there. They were too absorbed in yelling at each other from opposite sides of the sitting room. Over one another, really. They'd obviously long since passed the point where they actually listened to what the other was saying. Lestrade simply stood there, trying to get a grasp on what exactly they were arguing about.

"Why do you even bother protecting it if you know I can just get past it anytime I want?" Sherlock said, trying to sound logical while at the same time out-shouting John.

"It's the _principle_ of the thing, Sherlock! It's. MY. Laptop. Not anyone else's and definitely not yours!" John yelled back, red in the face. Lestrade watched in silent fascination. Sherlock and John didn't fight. They'd been flatmates for eight months now and in all that time he'd never seen them fight. Sure, they'd argue until everyone around them was sick of listening. They'd banter for the entire day if they could. Sometimes they'd give each other the silent treatment, if things got really bad. But never an actual fight.

"Maybe I should just move out then, if you can't comprehend the slightest thing about privacy!" John yelled.

"Yes, maybe you should, if it means that much to you," Sherlock shot back, and that's when Lestrade decided this had gone too far.

"All right, now, come on," he said. "Let's not take this too far."

They both turned around and looked at him. "When did you get here?" Sherlock asked.

"Not that long ago. Only a couple of minutes, really."

John sighed, "You heard all that, didn't you?

"Well, enough of it, anyway," Lestrade said. "You don't really mean that?"

"Oh, I do," John said, his anger flaring up again. He pointed at Sherlock, _"He_ keeps using my laptop. Going through my files. It's password protected! He keeps guessing them."

"It's not _really _that difficult," Sherlock said under his breath.

John threw a hand up in the air, "See? He doesn't even get it!"

"Well, really, John, I solve crimes for a living and knew everything about you after meeting you for two minutes, did you really think I _wasn't _going to be able to guess your laptop password?" Sherlock asked, his tone biting.

Lestrade had to admit Sherlock had a cruelly logical point. There was a reason he stored his own computer in a state-of-the-art safe in Scotland Yard when he wasn't using it. Still, everyone had the right to not have their flatmate go through their computer.

"Sherlock, do you really need his laptop? I know you have your own."

"Mine was in the bedroom!"

Lestrade sighed. He knew he was dealing with a child in many ways. It wouldn't be the first time he had to lay down the law with Sherlock.

"All right, listen, you two. John, is there anywhere you can keep your laptop where he won't get to it? Your bedroom's on the second floor, isn't it?

John rolled his eyes, "He'll go up there and get it just to spite me, you watch."

"John, if he won't even go to his bedroom to get his laptop, do you really think he's going to climb a flight of steps to go get yours?" Lestrade argued logically. Sherlock smirked; they all knew he was exceptionally lazy when not on a case.

John glared at them both before conceding, "No."

Lestrade smiled, "Good. Now, Sherlock, you know as well as I do that there aren't that many people who would enjoy living with you the way John usually does. Do you really want him to move out?"

Sherlock flung himself onto the sofa and shook his head without looking at either of them.

"And, John, you've told me yourself you didn't know what you would have done if you hadn't met Sherlock? And now you want to move out?"

Defeated, John shook his head too, "No, I don't. But we need some ground rules!"

"Well, start with, no using each other's laptops," Lestrade said. "Does that sound good?"

Sherlock glanced over at them and sighed theatrically, "All right, _fine_."

"See?" John asked. "That wasn't so difficult, was it?"

Lestrade gaped at him, "That's it? No other rules you want to lay down? No experiments in the fridge, no gunshots in the flat?"

"No, I think that's it," John said. Sherlock grinned in that sideways way he had and Lestrade shook his head.

"I knew there was a reason you were the only person who could last more than two weeks here," he muttered. "Anyway, I've got a case for you, if you want it. Cabbie found dead, cab full of dead people's credit cards. Coming?"

Sherlock and John glanced at each other, then rushed to grab their respective coats without another word. Lestrade followed them out the door. _Just add referee to my CV, then._


	7. Aftermath

Set right after John moves in with Sherlock, discussion of some pretty serious stuff about John's state of mind following his return from Afghanistan. Warning for discussion of suicide

* * *

><p>It took John surprisingly long to unpack all his things once he moved into the Baker Street flat. He hadn't realized he'd acquired that much stuff since he'd been back, although he suspected part of the problem was that Sherlock's belongings had spread themselves out in every room in a matter of only a couple of days, leaving John nowhere to put his own things.<p>

Now that he'd been in the new flat for almost three months, John supposed it really was time he unpacked the last of the boxes. He was a little embarrassed that it had taken him this long, since he really didn't have that much stuff. He hadn't even looked through most of the boxes since he'd left Afghanistan and probably didn't even need most of it anymore. Soon, multiple piles of stuff he thought of as garbage surrounded him, full of things he knew he'd never use. He dug deeper into the last box, finding the medals he'd received for his military service, thrown at the bottom in hopes of forgetting. He supposed he should keep those, really. Sighing, John moved over to his nightstand and opened the drawer, intending to place them on the bottom and let them be just as forgotten.

The first thing he noticed was that everything was out of order. His papers had been shifted over and his gun was shoved toward the back. That wasn't how John had left the drawer and he knew it. Before, he might have thought someone had broken into his room. Now, however, he lived with Sherlock Holmes. Also known as the nosiest person in the entire United Kingdom and probably the world.

"Sherlock!" John yelled down the stairs. "Could you come up here, now, please?" Patience kept him from truly losing his temper, but he was annoyed and he made sure his flatmate knew it as he came bounding up the stairs. "Have you been going through my drawers?"

"Ahh," Sherlock had the decency to attempt to look embarrassed, although he didn't do it very well. "I needed to test a bullet. You're the only one I know who has a gun."

"You know, your brother's the British government. Can't you just _ask _him to borrow an armory or something when you're bored?"

"Why would I do that when you have one right here?" Sherlock said, his expression growing confused. John sighed. He knew he'd never get anywhere now, Sherlock truly wouldn't understand why raiding his flatmate's drawers was less acceptable than going somewhere he would actually be allowed to use a gun.

"I suppose the bullet ended up in the wall?"

Sherlock grinned, "The door, actually. I needed to see how far a particular type of bullet would sink into different wood surfaces." He picked up John's medals. "Distinguished Service Order, Military Cross, Conspicuous Gallantry Cross…you have quite the military record."

"I told you I was very good," John said absently, putting his gun on the floor so he could put the medals under it. "Don't touch that," he added to Sherlock. "I don't want bullet holes in _my _walls."

Sherlock remained silent for a few seconds, then asked, "Why _do _you have a gun in the first place? They're illegal, completely. No doubt Mycroft thinks that's one of his better ideas."

John shrugged, picking up his old service revolver and putting it back in the drawer, "I guess I got used to having it and sort of didn't give it back. You wouldn't believe how easy it was to slip past them."

"I would, actually, but getting back to my question; _why_?" Sherlock responded. "Why would you think you needed it? You had no idea you were going to end up chasing criminals through the streets. As far as you were concerned, you were going back to a 9-5 job and a pub on every corner."

John looked up at Sherlock in slight surprise, "Sherlock, I was invalided home; I had no prospects, no money, no friends, a liking for danger and no likelihood of finding any. Can you, of all people, _really_ not guess why I had it?"

Sherlock's expression went from confused to understanding and then, quickly, to something John would have called horror had it not been Sherlock. But, he reflected, maybe he was being too hard on Sherlock. He appeared to be speechless, for the first time in the three months John had known him.

"You," Sherlock swallowed and continued, "You were going to – to-"

He appeared unable to finish the sentence, to say those last two words: _kill yourself_.

"I surprised you," John said, to break the awkward silence that followed. "That's a first."

"But you were looking for a flatmate, a job," Sherlock said, still apparently unable to comprehend the idea. "You were _planning._"

John shook his head. "It's not just black and white, you know, Sherlock. I was thinking. About a lot of things, and none of those things seemed good from where I was at the time. I wanted to know I had it. Just in case."

Silence followed. John supposed Sherlock's shocked reaction would be considered tactless by some, but he found he preferred this honesty to all the platitudes about life being worth living and death being so permanent that he would have received from anyone else.

"And…now?" Sherlock asked, timidly, for him, a tinge of fear entering his otherwise cold blue eyes.

John smiled, "Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere. This…" he gestured at the boxes on the floor, "is the start of something long-term, something permanent. That's enough for me." He didn't know _what_ exactly it was the start of, him and Sherlock and these cases, but it was worth seeing through. Little by little, he felt like everything was getting better.

Sherlock nodded and turned to go, then stopped, "John? It's good…having you here. On cases, I mean. And here, in the flat. I mean, where else would I find easy access to a gun and a laptop and a flatmate who doesn't mind experiments in the fridge?" He was babbling, a sure sign of emotional discomfort.

John blinked. He guessed that was Sherlock-speak for "I'm glad you didn't kill yourself." Better than nothing. "Just don't go through my drawers again and we'll be even," he said without looking up. He didn't expect that to actually happen. He couldn't keep Sherlock from going through his things any more than he could stop the Earth from turning.

"Oh, and Sherlock? John called, catching up with his flatmate as he headed down the stairs. "Thank you."

Sherlock looked up at him, his brow furrowed in confusion, "For…going through your drawer? For the cases? For the flat?"

"Uh, yeah. The flatshare. Thank you for the flatshare," John said quickly. Sherlock shook his head and continued on his way. John closed his door, figuring that Sherlock probably hadn't picked up on what he was really trying to say, but at least he'd said it.

Turning back to his medals, John thought about something else Sherlock had said. "Quite a military record." Maybe these shouldn't stay forgotten in a drawer after all. It probably wouldn't take much to get them framed and hang them up somewhere.


	8. Purely Academic

"I hate publicity," Sherlock said irritably in the cab.

John rolled his eyes. Those were the first words Sherlock had spoken all morning. All over a small criminology conference he'd been asked to attend as a speaker. The email had sat in Sherlock's inbox for two months before the conference organizers got desperate and contacted John instead.

"Well, next time I'll tell them what went through my head when they emailed me, which is that I'm not your PR person," John said reasonably. "In fact, I'm not a PR person at all. I thought you were so proud of this reputation you're gaining?"

"Yes, that's among clients. Clients get me cases. I don't _care_ about academics and their theories. Only the facts, the evidence. Put me to work, let me figure something out. These people…they want to put me on display, the _amateur_ who proves the police get everything wrong. So they can pat themselves on the back, 'good for us, we know who's really getting the criminals these days,' and go back to their peer-reviewed journals and their petty rivalries and not do anything useful," Sherlock's expression changed from disdain to anger to contempt, and John was surprised at the depth of vitriol.

"You know what the answer is, don't you?" John asked. He plunged on without waiting for a response. "RSVP to these people when they ask you so they don't have to contact me. I'm not running your business for you, Sherlock."

"It's not a business, it's an agency," Sherlock said.

"You make money, it's a business," John said flatly as the cab stopped outside the hotel where the conference was being held.

"Fine," Sherlock snapped. "Next time, I'll tell them no before you get to tell them yes and make me look even more ridiculous than you do in that blog." He opened the door of the cab and slammed it shut. John sighed and climbed out the other side.

"Don't do this. I know you're not angry at me. You don't care how you look, in my blog, in the papers, anywhere. You never have. So what is it?"

"And you must be Sherlock Holmes!" A tall woman in a blue dress suit came over before John got his answer and started to lead them into the hotel. "I was telling my colleagues at UCL that it's almost like being on TV instead of at an academic conference, with you as the guest." John couldn't tell if her tone was condescending or simply confused.

Sherlock smiled tightly, "Yes, well, my cases have been a bit…romanticized by the press."

"Well, we've all spent a lot of time studying you and your cases in our papers and classes," the woman said. "Frances Carfax, Professor of Criminology at UCL. And this is?"

"Oh, John Watson, my-" Sherlock stopped, glancing at John as if unsure exactly what he was.

"-friend," John finished with a smile. "I'm the one who writes up the cases."

"Oh," Professor Carfax nodded in understanding. "You have a biographer. A bit old-fashioned, that. I like it." She drifted away once they reached the lobby, leaving them both standing there, puzzled.

"A bit old-fashioned?" John asked. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Prominent men of the 18th and 19th centuries would often be memorialized in print by their close friends," Sherlock said. "The most famous one would be James Boswell, who wrote the Life of Johnston."

"So, I'm your…Boswell?" John asked slowly. He shook his head. "Already we're discussing 18th century literature. I'm beginning to see what you mean. This has _nothing _to do with solving crimes."

Sherlock smirked, possibly because John was right; none of these academic criminologists would have been useful at a crime scene. They made their way through the packed lobby and into the hotel ballroom, where Sherlock would be giving his speech. People milled around in small groups, and as they passed, John head snippets of their conversations.

"-Dr. Monroe believes that the psychological theories of Professor Herman might have some basis-"

"-the use of Twitter for solving crimes in real time is a _fascinating_ study, I have a paper being published-"

"-focused on a narrow band of felony murders based around stealing jewelry. It's very interesting-"

Most of these conversations left John feeling uneasy. There was a disconnect between the research done on these crimes and the effects they had on the real victims, not to mention the underlying social causes of crime in the first place. And he'd thought Sherlock was cold about crime solving. At least he was honest about it.

"And here's our guest of honor, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," a large man with a bald spot, a brown beard and a tweed suit jacket appeared out of nowhere and scooped Sherlock up by the arm, turning to his small, reedy friend with a smile. "He's the one who realized the lost Vermeer last year was a fake!"

"Yes, I did," Sherlock said, pulling himself out of the man's grip. "Does Cambridge know you were using their travel funds to assist the Venezuelan police?"

Identical slack-jawed expressions appeared on both men's faces. "Ah, no, I was doing research on the intersection of political dissent and criminal activity and it turns out I was able to help them out a bit on a case or two," the first, larger man said. "Now, how did you know that?"

"You're wearing a Cambridge tie pin, you're tanned around the wrists and neck, and you have a ring with the seal of the Venezuelan police on it," Sherlock said. "I memorize all standard seals of every police force in the world, it's not that difficult to figure out that you helped them out on something big to merit a gift like that ring. Incidentally, you were wrong. I followed the case, and it was almost certainly the sister of the man you led them to." The professor's expression changed very quickly from confusion to horror and he quickly slipped away. The smaller man, however, laughed.

"That's Bob, always looking for some extra recognition. I must say, I didn't think it was actually true, that you could do that. I'm Patrick Shennon, by the way. Hey, Flora, come over here, you've got to see," he pulled aside a woman from the next group and then turned to Sherlock, "Here, read her."

Sherlock stopped, looking between them in some confusion at being commanded to use his gift for observation on cue, his gaze finally landing on John, who cleared his throat and said quickly, "I'm sorry, but we really have to go. Sherlock's got to prepare his speech." He gently pulled Sherlock along by the sleeve of his coat until they found a mercifully empty stretch of wall. He shook his head and exhaled softly, "You were right, this is the worst."

Sherlock turned toward the wall, his hands steepled in front of him. He was carefully not gazing at any of the people. "I hate social occasions." John had rarely heard Sherlock express an actual dislike for something; usually he restrained himself to insults that no one took seriously anymore. He glanced up at Sherlock, who turned around and watched the room with distaste in his eyes. "They spend all this time arguing and gossiping; who's doing the most interesting research, who's getting a paper published, who's getting divorced, and who's sleeping with who. It's all so _pointless._"

"And then you have to pretend to be interested, be polite, get along with all these people you don't know and talk about all this stuff you don't care about," John continued, and Sherlock looked at him in surprise. "You're not the only one who hates this fake sort of thing, you know. There is a _reason _we get along."

"Then why did you accept their invitation on my behalf?"

John thought for a minute, "Well, for the same reason I write the blog, I suppose. It's good stuff, what you do. It's a science, it deserves to be recognized, more than these people do, anyway. You – we – deserve the recognition for all the good that we do with it." He shrugged, "Sometimes you have to do stuff you don't like to get ahead. Besides, Lestrade thought it would go over better with some of his higher-ups if he could say you had been recognized in some official capacity." John wasn't oblivious; he knew what Sherlock was like in social situations. In retrospect, Lestrade probably hadn't been the best person to ask but he did agree with the Scotland Yarder's assessment that the recognition by the academic community would do Sherlock's career a world of good.

"You know he doesn't watch out for his career, he turns down the cases he doesn't find interesting. Always has," Lestrade had said when John had first been contacted by the conference.

Sherlock sighed and dropped the subject, saying instead, "So now I have to talk at them for half an hour about my methods, as if they're actually interested."

"Some of them probably are actually interested," John answered. "As for the rest, they're just bodies in the seats. Go through it and we'll never do one of these again." One conference would be enough of a boost. It would have to be.

Sherlock nodded, steeling himself before he headed up the steps to the stage. The applause was genuinely warm, if slightly uncertain, as if aware that Sherlock's direct brand of crime-solving was something new, unconnected to academic theories and traditional police work. To John it seemed a harbinger of things to come. The future would be on Sherlock's terms; he would be the one people remembered, and everyone here knew it.

* * *

><p>AN Sorry for the long break between updates. Life's been ridiculous, I'll try and update more often!


	9. Patch Buddies

Sorry for the long wait between updates, my Sherlock muse is nonexistent at the moment. This is in response to a request from a friend in real life who wanted Sherlock and Lestrade being patch buddies.

* * *

><p>Sherlock looked up at the surrounding officers, all waiting for him to say something. The body on the morgue table was sliced open so badly even Sherlock felt his iron control shake as he entered the room. He controlled himself, barely, intent on never allowing Scotland Yard to see him at anything less than his best.<p>

He swallowed, hoping no one noticed. He'd told them he was the best at what he did, only because there was no one else who did what he did. He knew he was here on sufferance, and if he slipped up even once, he would be shut out forever. Looking from Anderson to Donovan to the forensics crew he'd kicked out of the room, he saw so much more than just the histories he read in their faces and clothing. He saw their thoughts.

"Freak,' Donovan's hostile stare said.

"He'll never get it this time," Anderson's smug expression said.

"Why do they even let him in here? He can't do anything we can't do," was written plain as day on the forensic photographer's face.

His gift for observation often was a curse, Sherlock thought. He resisted the urge to back up, to escape all these people and their beliefs and expectations about him. He closed his eyes, trying to get back into his own head, where he knew what he was capable of and that he could do this. It was a cruel oxymoron, that his mind ran so fast he couldn't keep up with it, that ran away with itself so he had to self-medicate to function, but it was also his safest spot. It was the only place he could truly be himself.

Thinking of self-medicating reminded him strongly that he was clean. He wished he hadn't had to give up the drugs to do this. It was Lestrade's only stipulation. He had to be clean to work with the police, and after months of agonizing work, he was. But it was fragile, he knew that. Times like these, when his mind ran away with itself, happened all too often and threatened to drive him back to the cocaine.

"Excuse me," Sherlock said, as politely as he could, but internally screaming. He left the room and headed upstairs as quickly as he could, pulling out his pack of cigarettes once he reached the street. He took a deep breath, letting the smoke calm him down. It was the only vice he still allowed himself.

"How many of those have you had today?" A voice asked behind him. Sherlock turned around, not wanting Lestrade to know how startled he was. Had he been thrown that badly, that he couldn't tell when someone as dense as Lestrade was sneaking up behind him?

"This is my first," Sherlock lied coolly.

Lestrade scoffed, "No, it's not." He grabbed the pack out of Sherlock's hand and opened it to reveal only half the cigarettes left. "It's only 10 in the morning, Sherlock. Is that all from today?"

Sherlock leaned against the wall, looking at the cigarette in his hand rather than at Lestrade, who he knew was looking at him in worry and sympathy. But the police detective was right; it was all from today, and Sherlock didn't know how he'd gotten that way. He didn't like not knowing, hated being out of control like that.

"Is this really your business, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock said instead. "Besides, I can see the pack in your pocket."

"Not officially, no, it's not," Lestrade agreed. "I may not see people the way you do but I can see enough to know when you're dependent on something. You can smoke all you like, but now, it's a crutch, Sherlock. I need you walking. On your own."

"Besides," he continued, when he realized he had Sherlock's attention. "This isn't a pack of cigarettes." He pulled the pack out of his pocket. Nicotine patches. Sherlock cursed internally. He should have been able to see the difference, even through Lestrade's coat pocket. He really was off his game.

"Tell you what," Lestrade said. "I've been meaning to do this anyway. How about you and I do it together?"

Sherlock laughed derisively, "Is this a bonding thing, Lestrade? Are we going to be 'patch buddies' and go to 12-step meetings together?"

Lestrade shrugged, "You said it, not me. But if it'll get you out of this...self destructive cycle you're in, well then, yeah."

Lestrade's brutal honesty disarmed Sherlock for a moment. Not just that he'd been able to see what Sherlock himself had been denying for months, that he'd simply moved from one dependency to another, but the lengths he was prepared to go to ensure Sherlock succeeded.

It was almost as if he cared. As if he thought Sherlock was worth it. That was something new, something the detective hadn't expected from the pragmatic police officer. People surprised him so rarely that he always sat up and took notice when it happened.

Sherlock hesitated and almost didn't take the patch. He knew he'd be in Lestrade's debt if this was what finally succeeded and he didn't want that. But he finally reached forward and took it, sticking it on his arm as Lestrade did the same. He wanted to be in charge of himself more than he wanted to be free of owing Lestrade a debt, and besides, he'd never live it down if he was offered help, refused and then destroyed himself. Or worse, accepted the help and then failed. If he did this, it was going to be final.

Lestrade smiled, and Sherlock read in that smile a message: Lestrade would be doing this too. He'd know what it was like, and he'd keep Sherlock steady, keep him from falling. He thought Sherlock could be something, because he wouldn't expend this effort on someone he didn't think was worth it. Sherlock would never say so, but Lestrade was the first person since his brother had stopped speaking to him to think so.

What he actually said was, "Come on, Lestrade, your forensics crew is probably destroying the evidence as we speak." Best to let him know there would be no change in their relationship. From the way Lestrade grinned, though, Sherlock could tell he hadn't believed him.

Oddly enough, that didn't bother him.


	10. Adventures in Glitter

A/N In honor of Sherlock Holmes's 161st birthday and the start of filming of the Sherlock special *screams and throws confetti and sets off fireworks* a little entry to show I'm still here :)

* * *

><p>"Are you sure you don't want backup?" John asked, standing outside the nondescript building.<p>

"No, I think it's better if I do this alone," Sherlock answered with a small sigh. "Don't want to alarm them, now do we? Sending in the police and all that."

"Hmm, yeah, 'cause you're not alarming at all," Lestrade said sarcastically. Sherlock shot him a withering look before heading inside.

"Mind you, I wouldn't mind being a fly on that wall," Lestrade said to John after the detective left. "Sherlock and about thirty four-year-olds."

"He's usually pretty good with kids," John countered. "Something about how they make more sense than adults, he says." This was ridiculously appropriate; Sherlock was often nothing more than an extremely tall five-year-old himself. "He's probably in his element." John couldn't help the small grin that crossed his face at the thought.

"Well, he only needs to get a description anyway," Lestrade reasoned. "What convinced that bank robber to escape through a day-care center?"

John shrugged, "I don't know. Probably easier. I just hope one of the kids got a good enough look at him." They would be in for a hell of a chase otherwise; this was the only lead they'd had.

Lestrade nodded, then asked, "Want some coffee? We could be here a while."

"Sure, thanks," John said. He stood there, trying to keep watch and feeling very conspicuous in broad daylight outside a day care center. Once Lestrade got back, they sat on the bench outside, sipping their coffee, when Sherlock finally emerged from the building.

John took one look at him and started sniggering into his hand. "Sherlock, what happened to you?" Next to him, Lestrade was staring open mouthed. Sherlock sighed in a long suffering way.

"Did they crown you king or something?" Lestrade finally asked.

"What? Oh," Sherlock said, tearing the flimsy paper crown off his usually elegant curls. "No, they wanted to play...Pretty Pretty Princess, I think it's called? And there weren't enough crowns for everyone." Lestrade and John burst out laughing and Sherlock glared at them both, but his usual intimidation tactics didn't have the same effect, for some reason.

"It goes well with that," John said, pointing to the messy, bright red circles someone had smeared all over Sherlock's chiseled cheekbones.

"What, this? It was finger painting day," Sherlock said, trying to wipe the paint off and failing. "Apparently there isn't much difference between fingers and faces when you're four." His tone became long suffering, and he glared at both John and Lestrade as they kept on laughing.

"The glitter goes really well with the coat, I have to say," Lestrade said.

Sherlock looked down, taking in the sparkles that were all over his jet black coat. He brushed off his shoulders and sleeves impatiently, which did nothing to remove any of the glitter. "Yes, I know, it's all very amusing. When you're all done laughing, I did get a description, and it matches the leader of the Corn Hill Gang, just as I suspected. If we hurry now we might be able to catch him before he leaves the country." Neither of them questioned how Sherlock knew the robber would be leaving the country, but as he started down the street, Lestrade grabbed his arm. John was still laughing too hard to be of any use, leaning up against the building, trying to catch his breath.

"Hang on, you can't go after him now!"

"Why not?" Sherlock asked urgently.

"Look at you! You look like some sort of...vampire clown," Lestrade said, causing John to howl even louder with laughter. "If you go after any criminal now, you'll never be able to live it down."

Sherlock looked between them, his expression intense, the way it usually was during a case, which only made him appear more ridiculous, and Lestrade finally lost his composure and started giggling.

"Oh, for God's sake, Lestrade, you sound like a nine year old when you do that," Sherlock said irritably.

"Says the man in the clown makeup," John said under his breath, and he and Lestrade collapsed into giggles again.

"Yes, very professional," Sherlock said sarcastically "Fine, how do I get this stuff off so we can go do our jobs?"

"Hang on a minute," Lestrade said. "You don't think you're getting out of this without documentation, do you?" He pulled out his phone, snapping a few photos while Sherlock stood there looking annoyed.

"Are we finished? Good, let's go," Sherlock said, ignoring the stares he was receiving from everyone else on the street. "And I don't want to see any of those on the blog," he added warningly to John.

"Yeah, well, behave yourself and you won't," John said conversationally. "The next time I find a lizard in the cutlery drawer, those pictures are going up there for everyone to see."

Sherlock scoffed, "It wasn't _that _big a lizard!"

"It was _poisonous,_ Sherlock!" John protested. Then he sighed, "Here," and started brushing silver glitter off Sherlock's shoulders. Lestrade shook his head, still grinning. This would be good for blackmail for _years _to come, as many attendees to Scotland Yard's annual Christmas parties would later attest.


	11. The Advantages of Caring

A/N I am so, so sorry I haven't updated in months. Life has been unbelievably busy (going back to school, new job, etc), and my Sherlock muse is kind of...dead, unfortunately. Hopefully it'll be back soon, but in the meantime, enjoy!

* * *

><p>"Sherlock, must you play with everything you see?" Mycroft asked as his brother picked up the only paperweight on Mycroft's desk and started playing with it.<p>

Sherlock put it down with a pout, "Why do you even have it anyway? There aren't any papers on your desk."

"Well, of course not," Mycroft said. "Do you think I want my office to look like your flat, with clutter everywhere? How is anyone supposed to work like that?"

John laughed quietly into his hand and both Sherlock and Mycroft looked over at him. "Ah, sorry," he said.

Mycroft turned his attention back to his brother. "Here is the file, Sherlock. Now, Wyle is an extremely dangerous foreign agent. All I need you to do is place the incriminating information in his desk drawer and leave. _Nothing _else. Do you understand me, Sherlock?"

"Yes, _Dad_," Sherlock said, snatching the file out of Mycroft's hand.

"Just so we're clear," John said, raising a hand, "this is breaking and entering. Not to mention planting evidence."

"Of course it is, John," Sherlock said, getting up and throwing his scarf around his neck. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"No, no, just making sure we're clear," John said. Mycroft watched interestedly. He knew he could trust Sherlock, however...chaotic his methods, but he hadn't expected the new flatmate to come along. Not that he objected to John Watson's presence. Sherlock would still get the job done, and it would be an interesting experiment to see how far this new friend of his brother's was willing to go.

"It is, unfortunately, the only way to get him out of the country before something truly disastrous happens," Mycroft said by way of explanation. John nodded, and he could tell the former soldier resisted the urge to salute as he left. Mycroft smiled. He had that effect on people.

Mycroft stayed at his desk late that night, a somewhat unusual occurrence. He had some paperwork to do about the situation in Uganda, which is what he was occupied with when his phone rang.

Mycroft sighed; he bitterly resented any change to his routine and someone calling this late was out of the ordinary in the extreme. "Hello?" he said.

"Mycroft?" John Watson's panicked voice filled the other end of the phone. "What the hell have you sent us into?"

"John, what is it?" Mycroft asked calmly, signing the last page with a flourish. Done. The simple joy of a day's work well done.

"They were expecting us!" John yelled. "The alarm code had been changed and it was like they all came out of the bloody walls!"

A cold, sick feeling took its place in Mycroft's stomach, eradicating his earlier satisfaction, "John, how did you get this number?"

"It's in his phone - Sherlock's phone," John said, his voice shaking. "We tried to get out, he pushed me down but he wasn't fast enough."

"John, is he alive?" Mycroft asked, a steel even he barely knew he possessed entering his voice. He was already thinking of the number of ways this could end, and none of them were good. Either for the country or his brother.

"Yes, yes," John finally said. "But there's a lot of blood and he lost consciousness right away. I managed to carry him out to the street, and the ambulance is on its way."

Mycroft paused a moment, his mind filled with images of John carrying Sherlock's tall, limp form out of the building while firing shots at the bodyguards who had been waiting for them. Quite the hero. He shook his head - where had those fanciful images come from? - and said, "The nearest hospital to where you are is Charing Cross. Tell the ambulance to take you there. I'll meet you there." He hung up without waiting for John's reply, grabbing his coat.

John was sitting in the reception area when Mycroft arrived. "He's in surgery," the younger man said without preamble. "I managed to slow the bleeding but he still lost a lot of blood. Here's your damn file." He threw the file at Mycroft's feet and sat down angrily.

"John, I understand you've been through a lot of stress," Mycroft started, "But I need-"

John started to laugh mirthlessly, "Oh, yeah, a lot of stress. I only just watched my friend get shot multiple times because his _brother _sent him to do his dirty work."

"John-"

"And I know we agreed to it, but honestly, Sherlock would agree to have a hornet's nest built around him if it meant he'd never get bored, and-"

"John!" Mycroft said sharply. He lowered his tone when John looked at him. "I need to know exactly what happened. Did any of them get a good look at you?"

"No, I don't think so," John said heavily, seemingly exhausted by stress and worry. "We were wearing these." He pulled a black ski mask out of his pocket.

Mycroft sighed, running a hand over his forehead, "Well, that's a relief. It would have required you both to have round the clock protection. The paperwork would have been staggering." His mind was racing, figuring out how to deal with the minutiae that would arise from this mess of a job. He knew he shouldn't have agreed to do this; this was why he so rarely did favors for any other department. They were all so incompetent, and in his line of work it usually got people killed.

John stared openly at Mycroft, "That's really all you care about, isn't it?"

Mycroft was about to answer when a doctor came out of the nearest door. "Are either of you here for Sherlock Holmes?" she asked.

"Yes, we, uh, both are," John said, getting up.

The doctor smiled, "Well, then, I'm glad to tell you he'll be just fine. We managed to get all the bullets out and patch him up. He should be fine after a couple of weeks of bed rest."

_Bullets? How many were there? _Mycroft wondered, but then he saw John's weak smile of relief and the the second part of the doctor's statement sank in. Sherlock would be fine.

"Thank you, Doctor," Mycroft said, covering for John who had sat down, sighing in relief as the shock kicked in. If he were a different sort of man, Mycroft might have placed a comforting hand on John's shoulder but, well, he wasn't a very comforting person, and so he simply looked expectantly at the doctor.

"Don't thank me," she said. "I only finished the job. Whoever kept him from bleeding out is the real hero. I wouldn't have been able to do a thing with him otherwise." She handed them Sherlock's room assignment, and left.

"John," Mycroft said.

"What?" John asked acidly. "Got another assignment for us? Because I don't think he's gonna be up for it yet."

"Thank you," Mycroft said quietly, not looking John in the eye.

John's brows furrowed, confused, "What?"

Mycroft nodded toward the door the doctor had left through. "She said he wouldn't have made it if you hadn't kept him from bleeding out. Thank you."

John blinked, taken aback, "I, er, you're welcome."

"It isn't only the mission I care about, John," Mycroft said quietly as he left. Sherlock wouldn't want to see him anyway. But, he had learned how far John Watson was willing to go.

The next day, Mycroft brought the folder over to Derek Hilt, Head of the Foreign Office.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," Hilt said. His face fell when he saw what Mycroft was holding. "You didn't plant it? You knew that was the only way of catching him!"

Mycroft slammed the file down on Hilt's desk. "They were nearly caught. My brother is in the hospital right now with multiple gunshot wounds because of _this_ mission." His voice took on deadly quiet, the one that let his staff know to avoid him until further notice.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm, uh, sorry," Hilt stammered under the force of Mycroft's glare.

"No, you're not, you're just scared," Mycroft said, switching instantaneously to a pleasant tone, enjoying the effect of Hilt visibly losing his confidence. "And you should be."

"You're not gonna do anything, are you?" Hilt asked, his voice shaking. Mycroft could almost see him thinking: _maybe all those stories about Mycroft Holmes were true after all._

"No," Mycroft said, making sure he sounded regretful. "He will live, since you didn't ask."

"Well, that's good," Hilt said, laughing nervously. "Next time I'll-"

"There won't _be _a next time, Mr. Hilt," Mycroft said as he left.

Ten months later, when it came time to evaluate government performance, Derek Hilt found himself removed from his position and sent to the Orkneys to oversee the post offices. Mycroft smiled to himself as he signed the order.

He so rarely had the chance to have fun with his position, after all.


	12. One Door Closes

A/N Set sometime after S1. Sorry, I know it's been a while. My Sherlock muse has been uncooperative for over a year now, but I'm still trying!

* * *

><p>John slammed the door to the flat, then sat down, his anger evaporating despite his having spent the whole walk home stewing over it. He sighed heavily, rubbing a hand against his forehead. He was getting a headache, and the pile of bills on the table next to the chair wasn't helping. Since he now had no way to pay them, that is. Sarah had been apologetic as she told him, which was more than he deserved after the way he'd treated her and her business. Rationally, John knew that. He knew he had skipped his shifts just a few too many times, had left early just a few too many others. Besides, Sarah was his ex. His ex who he had broken up with, for all intents and purposes, because he'd valued his friendship with Sherlock over his romantic relationships. And his professional relationships. No wonder she thought he wasn't worth his paycheck.<p>

John let his head fall into his hand. What was he going to tell Sherlock? In spite of everything they'd been through together, he was still here because they were supposed to split the rent. Were they going to have to move out? John didn't have anywhere else he could go; and he couldn't begin to imagine another place that wouldn't throw Sherlock out long before his probation period was over. It scared him, how little time had passed, and how he was already mentally considering Sherlock in every decision he made. It was like they were connected, and he didn't know how it had happened. Only that it was the first thing that had felt right in a long time.

"John? Did you get my message? There's an escaped convict and Lestrade predictably can't make heads or tails of it," Sherlock said, coming in from the bedroom at the end of the hall. "I - John? What's going on?" He'd obviously noticed something was wrong from John's expression.

"Nothing, I'm fine," John said quickly, although he knew his expression would be telling Sherlock the exact opposite.

"Really? Because you look like someone died. Don't tell me who unless it was a murder. I don't want any distractions," Sherlock said, sinking into his armchair, closing his eyes in the expression that indicated deep thought.

John sighed, "No one died, Sherlock. It's nothing."

Sherlock opened one eye, "I can tell when you're lying, you know. Something's going on."

"For God's sake, Sherlock, for once, can't you just let it alone!" John snapped. Sherlock stared back at him impassively, not even blinking, and John deflated. He wasn't angry at Sherlock, and lashing out would get him nowhere. "I'm sorry, all right? I didn't mean that. Just, I don't want to talk about it."

Sherlock shrugged and went back to his thought process. John could tell it obviously didn't matter to him if John was in a bad mood or not. They remained there uninterrupted until Mrs. Hudson came bustling up the stairs with the dust mop. "Hello, boys!" she said brightly. "Nice day out, isn't it?"

Sherlock ignored her, and John sighed. Mrs. Hudson's looked at them sadly, "Something wrong? John? You're looking a bit peaky, dear."

"No, I'm fine, it's just -" John broke off and stood up. "Mrs. Hudson, I have to tell you something."

Mrs. Hudson looked up at him, "Oh, what is it, John? Did something happen? Did one of you get hurt?" Her expression grew a little frightened, and John was forcibly reminded of the time he had dragged Sherlock back to Baker Street with a slight concussion, yelling at him the whole time that he should have gone to the hospital instead. They'd nearly scared their landlady half to death.

"No, no, we're fine," John said, taking a deep breath. He might as well just get it over with. "It's just that, well, I've lost my job. At the surgery."

"Oh, John, I'm sorry," Mrs. Hudson said, patting him gently on the shoulder. "I'm sure you'll find something else."

"Hmph, I don't know," John said. "There aren't too many places that'll be too happy with me leaving constantly to take cases." He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, and resolutely didn't turn around. "I don't want to be an alarmist, but I don't know how long I'll be able to stay here on just my army pension."

"Oh, don't say that, John, you stay as long as you need," Mrs. Hudson said, her tones businesslike. "Like I said, you'll find something soon."

"Mrs. Hudson, you're a lifesaver," John said in relief. "Thank you so much."

Mrs. Hudson waved a hand, "Don't worry about it, dear. I don't know what I'd do without you boys up here. The house was too empty before." She patted his arm sympathetically again and went off to dust John's bedroom upstairs. John smiled after her before turning back to the living room, feeling considerably lighter.

"So, that's it. You lost your job," Sherlock said without opening his eyes.

"What?" John asked. "Oh, yeah." He sighed, "I guess I knew it was coming. Sarah and I haven't been together in a couple of months and I kept having to skip out on them."

"So what are you going to do?" Sherlock asked, opening his eyes and focusing on John.

John sighed, "I don't know, find another job? Like Mrs, Hudson said, there has to be something."

Sherlock waved a hand as if the rent was the last thing he cared about. "No, I mean, if you can't find something else?"

"Thanks for the endorsement of my chances of finding another job, Sherlock. That's exactly what I needed to hear, " John said tiredly. "Look, if you're worried about the rent, I'm gonna do the best I can. I can't promise anything though."

Sherlock sat up, "Well, I have a suggestion."

He didn't continue, and John watched him expectantly. "And?" he prompted.

"If you're going to keep helping me on cases, I was thinking, maybe I should...raise my rates, or something. To cover both of us," Sherlock said, in so matter-of-fact a tone that John was sure he must be hiding some insecurity as to what John's answer would be.

"So, what, I would be...working for you?" John asked uncertainly. He wasn't sure he liked it being that official. Helping Sherlock unofficially was one thing. Being Sherlock's _employee _was entirely another.

"What? No," Sherlock said quickly. "But I find your help...useful and if my clients are getting both of our help, then they should pay for us both." John stared at him in utter shock, having never heard Sherlock mention the financial aspects of his job before. He'd been halfway convinced that Sherlock wasn't even aware he was being paid to investigate anything.

"Like a...partnership?" John asked. "The Holmes and Watson Detective Agency? Hang on, do you even _have _a business name?"

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, "Nothing so official. It'd be the same as we've been operating, only now you'd be paid for it." When John appeared to be considering it, Sherlock went on, growing more excited. "Think about it, John, you wouldn't have to turn down the cases I take abroad, you'd be able to work on the case's schedules instead of having to worry about getting to work in the morning. Isn't that better?"

"It...makes sense," John said, although until that moment, he'd never been sure that Sherlock knew about his other commitments. Not unless they interfered with what Sherlock wanted him to do, obviously. "Just so we're clear, though, I'm helping you. You're not my _boss."_

Sherlock grimaced, "Of course not. I've never been anyone's boss in my life." He grinned and John started to laugh. "So, is that a yes?"

"I guess it is," John said. "Thanks, Sherlock. That's a load off my mind, to say the least."

"Don't mention it," Sherlock said, leaning back. "As you said, you would have found something else."

John squinted at him in confusion, "And if I didn't?"

Sherlock shrugged, "I'm sure we would have found somewhere cheaper to live."

"We - hang on, you were gonna come with me?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged, "Well, obviously I can't afford this place on my own, at least not yet, and my chances of finding another flatmate so agreeable to my…" he paused as he couldn't find the word, and then said, "eccentricities" at exactly the same time John interjected, "annoying habits?"

Sherlock glared at him, and continued, "As I said, my chances of finding another flatmate who wouldn't mind my eccentricities are minimal at best. And you wouldn't have been able to find anywhere affordable on only an army pension. It's simple finance, John."

"Yeah, sure it is." John smiled to himself as he picked up the newspaper. "I'm sure we wouldn't have found a Mrs. Hudson in the new place, though."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose in agreement, "No, but good landladies are so hard to find. Have I ever told you about what my last landlady said about me?"

John chuckled, "No, but I'm sure I can imagine." He looked around the room as Sherlock started in on the story, and smiled in contentment. Leaving home was always hard. He was lucky that, this time at least, he didn't have to.


End file.
